Settling in - part I

“It’s not fair!” declares my 14-year-old son, a few days after school started. “You guys gave me a name everybody here messes up. Why did she get an easy name?” he points to his sister.

The poor child! Not much seems to be going right in his world these days - his fickle-minded parents can’t decide which country they want to live in; they don’t seem to be financially secure; he’s the new kid in school without any friends; his mother doesn’t understand him; his sister bullies him; and, the rest of the family asks him annoying questions about school that he’d rather not answer.

Thank goodness for his extended family in the vicinity whom he visits every weekend. His cousin in San Jose has a basketball hoop outside his house which the neighborhood boys regard as communal property. Much like our Bangalore neighborhood, garage doors are shut only at bedtime, and the children on his lane congregate to shoot hoops or try their hand at table tennis in the garage.

We could’ve moved to a more desi-centric neighborhood, I suppose, but our brash, rash streak compels us to take the road less traveled and do things backward, such as relocating the family before finding gainful employment. Not once, but twice in the last four years!

As though being the new kid in high school weren’t bad enough, my son finds my attempts to socialize with Indians in the neighborhood puerile and pathetic - a sentiment shared by his reticent father and sister.

“Let’s go for a walk, please,” I beg every evening at 6. “We can meet some people.”

“You go,” retorts my husband. “I don’t want to meet anybody.”

“Mom, stop embarrassing us!” the kids declare, closeting themselves in the bathroom or suddenly remembering a pending homework assignment.

I rue, yet again, that my good friends live a continent away, and congregate twice a day to socialize on the pretext of a constitutional.

In all fairness, our elderly Caucasian neighbor has tried to introduce us to other families in the neighborhood. The epitome of American good cheer and bonhomie, the man is literally the eyes and ears of the community, and can be found worshipping the California sun on his front lawn at any given time of day. Clad mainly in shorts and nothing else, he talks to anybody and everybody who passes by, including dogs.

That’s how we found out that we’re paying too much in rent, and that our Chinese homeowner is a “greedy bastard.” We were also introduced to the former tenants who moved across the street because the greedy bastard owner told them that he was selling the house.

“Chinese people, you know, all same …” said the Oriental lady shaking her head in disgust. “You no throw away money on rent. You buy own house. Not this house; buy nicer house,” she added, her facial expressions leaving no doubt that our homeowner is indeed a greedy bastard and many other unmentionables.

“The lease is only for a year,” shrugged my husband after the lady left. “By then we’ll figure out where we want to live.”

Move again? It’s only been three weeks into our new life, so bring it on, baby! I’m game.

Hello, California!

Barely a week into our great California adventure, and I’m already feeling like one of those mothers who can’t wait for school to reopen so that the kids get out of my and each other’s hair. Our empty house resounds with shrieks of “Shaddap! … No, you shaddap! … I’m going to punch you … kick you … slap you … Don’t touch me … I hate you!” as sibling rivalry reaches a crescendo.

A momentary truce is reached only when a parent loses his / her cool and yells above the din to separate the warring brother-sister duo. At such moments (and there are too many to count in an average day), the tailor made-for-children gated community environs where we used to live in Bangalore are recalled with a wistful sigh, and the mind travels back to all the times when the children were nowhere in the vicinity even when we wanted them to be because they had such a hectic social life.

“Will I ever make friends again?” my nine-year-old daughter, Kuki, wondered aloud one day, during a brief respite from her busy YouTube watching schedule. The first few days after I landed, I was so desperate for fellow Indians, I asked my husband to drive me to the Livermore temple. I was ready to be best friends with Mrs. Patel whose lower half I haven’t yet seen since she’s always behind the counter at Bharat Bazar. I almost called the old Punjabi lady who served me my Subway sandwich at the corner store ‘aunty,’ and was even tempted to smile at the sneezing, snorting, coughing, stuffy-nosed, oily-haired desi guy who sat behind me on the train last weekend.

With each passing day, however, the desperation subsides, and I become a little more like the Indians here – make minimal to zero eye contact with fellow desis, but go out of your way to be polite to the white populace.

I’m also reliving America through my daughter’s eyes. Her fickle child’s memory seems to have erased portions of her past so that most things here seem alien and foreign to her - “Wow, the toilet paper is so soft! Everything’s so clean here! Why is that lady wearing a bindi in America? So much candy everywhere! No one’s begging at the station … are there no poor people here?”

In much the same way, California is also new and alien to me – “Look at the size of these peaches/cherries/grapes! A vineyard behind the mall? How picturesque! So many Asians in one place! $20 for eyebrow threading? Day light robbery!”

Kuki and I went to the Indian grocery store the other day. As soon as we entered, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “It smells so good in here,” she said, running her eyes over the familiar packets of Maggi, MTR spices, and glucose biscuits. She happily bounded down the aisles, expressing a sudden interest in all things Indian, while I worried about the smell of the spices clinging to my clothes and hair. For a brief moment, I suppose, she was transported to Bangalore, on a trip to More or Hypercity that would soon end and she could return to her beloved friends and their familiar ways.

It is at times like these – when I watch her listless expression in the car; when she asks, “What time is it in India?” as soon as she wakes up; when she fingers items at Claire’s and mentions Friend A has the same bag, Friend B the same hat; and did we know (for the hundredth time, if I may add) that Friend C’s dad used to work for Target; and can we run into the Apple store for a few minutes, please, please, please because Friend D’s mom works for the company – that I swallow a lump in my throat and wonder yet again why I am cursed / blessed with this nomadic spirit that doesn’t allow me to settle in one place for too long.

I'm leaving on a jet plane

This blog is moving to the Bay Area this summer .... Mid-August, to be more specific.

Pet Pee-ves

My drive to work these days takes me through the busy bylanes of a village called Garbage-palya.

Now, were Garbage-palya a rural settlement in the south of France, it would be a charming little village with cobblestone roads and cottages brimming with bright flowers on the windowsill - the kind of picture postcard place where friendly villagers rode bicycles and waved to passing tourists.

Given its unfortunate location however, Garbage-palya is little better than a slum, with open drains, shabby tenements, and overcrowded streets spilling over with illegal construction, vegetable markets, roaming dogs, naked children, slow-footed cows, manic motorists and deaf pedestrians.

On a main road originally carved out to accommodate ambling cows and flocks of sheep, impatient motorcycles and cars crisscross slow bicyclists as they all lumber over potholes, navigate steep speed bumps and avoid pedestrians who take incessant honking in their stride by simply ignoring the sound.

As I wind my way through the narrow village, I pass by daily fixtures such as the baby buffalo with limpid eyes tied to a street sign; the old vegetable vendor pushing his cart toward the main road; portly stray dogs walking in and out of the butcher shop; shivering chickens huddled together in cages, as though resigned to their fate; and dusky women with plastic buckets beating sudsy clothes against culverts.

As though passing by the butcher shop every day weren’t disturbing enough, I have to endure another sight that makes me want to drive through the village blindfolded. At any given time of day, but most certainly in the mornings, rows of little children squat on the pavement bordering the road to answer nature’s call.

The daily traffic jam on the single arterial road ensures that the stalled vehicles are subject to spiral mounds of human waste in varying shades of yellow and brown that the ladies of the house then push into the open drains bordering the road.

I keep my eyes on the car in front, preferring instead to watch the driver examine the contents of his nose in the rearview mirror. Another ghastly sight will confront me a little ahead. Just before the bylane joins the main road, mingent men will park their vehicles alongside the road and relieve themselves against the shrubbery.

“Why can’t guys control themselves?” I ask my husband, wondering if men are missing a muscle in the perineal area that women automatically have. “It’s so disgusting!”

“Not a big deal,” he shrugs, prompting a quick look of alarm from me as I silently speculate if he’s guilty of a similar transgression or two.

If I were the kind of person to succumb to road rage, I would like to ram my vehicle into these men who calmly whip out their organs in public as though they were flipping open a cell phone. There are times when I'm tempted to honk at them – indiscriminate honking still scoring as the pinnacle of rudeness in my driving manual.

But being female, I exercise admirable restraint, just as I can control my pubococcygeus muscles as needed.

And to think they call women the inferior sex! Harrumph!

Long time no see!

See that adorable terrier mix wagging his tail furiously in the crowd? The one nervously wondering if you’re going to throw a rock at him or give him a warm hug?

That would be me, gentle readers, making a stage appearance on this blog in the style of Madhuri Dixit and other celebrity mothers on semi-retirement.

It’s been such a long time since I wrote anything worthwhile that I fear I may have forgotten how to write. The only reason I’m wiping the dust off this blog - at least for this one entry - is to thank all the people who write in from time to time asking how I am. You guys really make my day!

To all readers, here’s a quick recap of the last year or so that this blog has been lifeless:

• Work – Mom’s first job in India lasted a mere 14 months. A pity, because just when she started enjoying myself, her entire team disbanded. One moment the woman felt like Cinderella at the ball, and the next moment she found herself standing beside the road holding a pumpkin. She jumped ship like the rest of her team did, and is now part of a huuuuge organization, feeling much like a fish out of water.
  
• Play – Socially, my folks have never been busier. With dad’s sister living across the street and other friends in the complex, Friday nights and weekends ensure a steady stream of parties and impromptu get-togethers. So much so that when grandparents call, they preface the talk by asking, “What party this weekend?”
  
• Pati –Mom has gotten so used to seeing dad as a permanent fixture on the couch, laptop balanced on knees, that she dreads the time it might end and he’s back in the work force. For now, she thanks her lucky stars that he’s there when she leaves in the morning and pretty much in the same position when she returns – unflappable, quiet, reliable and extremely undemanding.
  
• Patni (exact opposite of the above) – The family made one trip back “home” in April. Living in India still feels like a vacation. Mom longs for the comfort and familiarity of their house in Chandler - the dry bathrooms, the sunlit kitchen, the spacious study, even the match-sized kids’ room. According to her, every nook and cranny of that house is filled with memories of me, the beloved pet, and mom in her younger days, when she was fitter, thinner, richer and more in control.
  
• Aur woe – You see, the vacancy I left behind has not been filled. I doubt it ever will. The only way I foresee a dog in mom’s life is if she quits her job and stays home. “Well, why don’t you, Amma?” asks her seven-year-old. For starters, mom would go nuts. And secondly, it’s the money, honey. “But Appa has a lot of money," Kuki offers helpfully. "That’s why he keeps going to the bank to get some.”

in Pursuit of Happyness

The other day, mom was sitting at her cubicle staring at the monitor when the CEO walked by.

Having worked for companies where the CEO was a shadowy presence - rumored to be working on his tan in the Bahamas with trophy wife no. 6 - it’s always somewhat of a novelty for mom to see the founder and CEO of her present workplace pace the hallway, tossing ideas into the air at the same speed he checks his BlackBerry.

“How’s it going?” he asked, stopping at mom’s desk. “Everything OK?”

“Yes …,” answered mom slowly, suspiciously wondering if he was about to throw a project her way.

“Are you happy?” he asked instead.

The shock must have registered on mom’s face because he lingered, as though her answer would make a difference in his day.

“Y-yes,” stammered mom, trying to recover her composure.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive,” replied mom, flashing her best Colgate smile.

As the man walked away to attend to matters of corporate importance, mom’s initial reaction was to speed dial dad and bark over the telephone, “The CEO just asked me if I was happy. When was the last time you asked me about my feelings?”

Instead, she pulled myself together and continued to stare at the computer monitor, pretending to be v-e-r-y busy in case he walked by again.

“What is happiness?” she mulled. “Is it a state of mind or a feeling? … Why does chocolate make me happy when I know it’s bad for me? … Can happiness be maintained or is it an elusive state of mind - here one moment and gone the next? … Would I be happier holidaying on the beach or in the mountains this winter? ….”

Far from achieving a state of bliss, such metaphysical pondering merely resulted in a throbbing ache in her temples – a condition that could be alleviated only by a steaming cup of syrupy-sweet cardamom tea from the vending machine in the corridor.

Back at her work station a few minutes later with her belly sated and the headache at a reprieve, mom thought about the most frequently asked question directed at her ever since she started working - “How do you like your new job?”

Everybody she’s recently come in contact with (bar the newspaper delivery person and the milkman who start their day earlier than she does) has asked mom about her job. “It’s nice,” she replies, without going into any specifics. Maybe what these people really want to know is, “Are you happy?”

So, after a lot of thought - which involved another walk to the tea vending machine for inspiration - mom arrived at the following reasons that contribute, in a small way, to her happiness quotient at work.

1. Given the average age of the work force, there are days when she feels she’s back in college. She watches young women blush over something their male co-worker said. She sees couples coyly sharing food from the same plate in the cafeteria. She hears single girls giggling and whispering on the cell phone in the restroom or discussing a prospect who replied to their profile on Jeevansathi.com. The only difference from college is that everybody’s better dressed and the men have actually bothered to shave before showing up in the morning.

2. Nobody butchers her name anymore. After hearing variations of her name from non-Indians for years, mom no longer has to repeat herself or cringe when people address her by first name.

3. She can wear whatever she wants to work without worrying about a human resources representative photocopying the dress code page from the Employee Handbook and leaving it on her desk with the “No denims” policy highlighted in red.

4. The reaction on people's faces when they find out how old her older child is. "Oh, quite old!" said a guy doing the math aloud. "You mean me, right?" mom teased. "No, no ... your child, I meant," he replied, trying to salvage the situation. I'll bet!

5. As if it’s not enough that the CEO actually walks the hallways, he uses abstractions such as “Fun” when he talks of employee engagement. (Most corporate communicators will point out that using the terms “fun” and “CEO” in the same sentence is an oxymoron.)

6. Compared to mom’s former company’s top-level management whose approachability factor - despite their declarations of an open door policy - rivaled that of the Sai Baba’s, some of the top people in this company are not above mingling with the masses, especially at lunch time in the cafeteria.

7. Generous vacation time, flex time, Diwali bonus for no reason, offsites and parties every quarter on company dime – what’s not to love?

8. Did I mention the unlimited cardamom tea in the vending machine, accompanied by complimentary cookies?

There, it’s your turn now - what are some of the reasons your workplace brings a smile to your face? (Aw, come on, there has to be at least one!)

The beginning of the end

I wish I could say that the reason for this blog hiatus is because mom is busy settling a new family member in. But the big news from her side is that after a year's sabbatical, she’s back in the work force. After driving 60 miles a day in her previous position, mom’s new workplace is a hop, skip, jump away from home.

The biggest blessing - aside from the paycheck, return of self-confidence, feeling of usefulness, etc. - is that dad is home. While mom’s gone for nine plus hours a day, he answers the doorbell for the courier guy, Bigflix guy, other random doorbell ringers, decides on the dinner menu and instructs the cook, ensures the children are fed after school and done with their homework, shops for groceries and acts as mom’s chauffeur by ferrying her to and from work.

Given the unconventional work hours (11 a.m. onward), mom starts her day with yoga classes in the morning. Bending and stretching after breakfast makes her feel better when she goes up to the chaatwala at work and orders a fried dish and gulps it down with a glass of freshly-squeezed musambi juice.

After suffering, yes suffering! as a vegetarian in U.S. cafeterias, mom is grateful for the subsidized Indian buffet spread and sandwich counter at work. The men behind the counter may not wear gloves, but they're willing to customize the food (mirchi kum; butter beda) and apt to turn the other way when people help themselves to a cup of yoghurt or rice from the buffet bar without paying the full meal price of Rs. 40.

A big jug of complimentary buttermilk arrives at noon in the break room, and three kinds of biscuits (salt, sweet, 50-50) are available all day to complement endless cups of masala tea, hot chocolate, badam milk, coffee and hot milk.

Despite distractions, such as hot samosas on rainy afternoons and impromptu birthday parties thrown for co-workers, mom does manage to get some work done - just in case you're wondering.

Evenings are spent wistfully glancing out the office window to watch the sun disappear behind buildings, and by the time she reaches home, the kids are yawning and rubbing their eyes. Mom’s own eyes start to droop after dinner, and she gratefully hits the sack, only to start her day at 6:30 the following morning.

School holidays allow her the luxury of spending an extra hour in bed until the maid rings the doorbell, but despite her tight schedule, mom now understands why some RNRIs are reluctant to go back.

"Who will leave this aaram zindagi and go back, yaar?" declared a Bay area-returned neighbor.

A few weeks ago when she was jobless and had nothing to lose, mom would've raised both hands and half her body in the air.

But, now, as she looks at the flowers in her lawn (courtesy the gardener), surveys the somewhat clean house she returns to (courtesy the maid), slides behind the wheel of a car that's been hosed and wiped down (courtesy the car cleaner), and tucks into the warm dinner that's laid out on the table each night (courtesy the cook), mom feels she almost knows what the neighbor means.

She'll probably raise only one hand in the air now, rather slowly.

The sound of silence

My darling Terri,

Much as I hate to admit it openly, I’m getting used to life without you.

It’s a strange feeling to not suffer from guilt anymore. I have to constantly remind myself that I can stay out late shopping, dining, partying, because there’s no one tugging at my heartstrings, waiting for me to come home.

After 13 years, it’s a new found feeling, and I can’t say that I really enjoy it.

You see, I loved doing things for you. Of course, I complained, but I miss boiling your morning egg, rolling out your lunch and dinner rotis and drinking my evening tea without you prodding me to take you for a walk.

I miss cupping your warm snout in my palm and dodging your licks as I tried to kiss you on the tip of your wet nose. I even miss that dank dog smell that was both disgusting and comforting at the same time.

With you gone, my love, I feel dispensable. I have quit jobs for your sake, refused dinner invitations and exotic vacations since it meant leaving you behind. And yet, I never felt resentful because you had a way of making me feel as though I were the only one who mattered. Perhaps all dogs have this innate gift. I would have to adopt another pet to know for sure.

“When can we get another puppy?” the children ask. I browse Web sites such as this to look for another dog, but the lure of future employment puts a damper on my pet plans.

“Who’s going to watch the dog if I start working?” I reply, citing brutal work hours in India as an excuse. “Besides, our yard isn’t fenced in; I don’t know how to potty train a puppy; we can’t leave him/her in a kennel if we go anywhere; I don’t know what the quarantine laws in the U.S. are if we ever go back."

“But why can’t Appa watch the dog if you go to work?” the children reason. “He’s home!” Your Appa refuses to be drawn into the discussion, using stubborn silence to convey his opinion on the matter.

Despite his reservations on pets, we took the children to the CUPA shelter last week to make a donation. The children and I shared similar levels of excitement as furry puppies beckoned and licked our fingers through the cages. More than a dozen years ago, on a visit to a similar animal shelter, I brought you home, Terri. I was young then, reckless, lonely in a new land, and confident that my new husband would indulge my whims.

Older now and less reckless, I stood surrounded by polite dogs at CUPA, ignoring the children’s squeals of “Please, please, please, can’t we get a puppy?” We fed the dogs biscuits and bread, laughed at the antics of the puppies, admired the limpid eyes of a cow tied nearby, and marveled at the positive energy of the three-legged residents who had lost a limb.

At the end of an hour, I pried the children away from the puppy enclosure and dragged them back to the car amid protests and whines. We wished the dogs well and drove home empty-handed.

I unlocked the front door when we returned, only to be greeted by silence. You may never come back to me, my darling, but loneliness, my old friend, has.

- Mom

Ghar ki murgees

Normally, visitors call before dropping in. But this duo showed up at our doorstep one morning and took the "Welcome" sign on the doormat rather literally.

They pecked at the glass door until mom opened it, and immediately strutted into the house unafraid. Where did they come from, wondered the family.

Before the house filled with chicken droppings, mom lured them out by squatting on the floor and calling out to them. They ran toward her like eager puppies and started pecking at her chappals.

“Feed the kolis rice, madam,” urged the maid.

“But aren’t their beaks sharp?” asked mom, sticking her rice-filled palm at them tentatively. “Won’t it hurt?”

“Of course not,” laughed the maid.

Ouch! Obviously the woman was trying to get her revenge on mom - chickens aren’t half as gentle as dogs.

Yelping, mom scattered the grains of rice on the floor and the birds cleaned up in a jiffy before proceeding to eat the sewer roaches, stray ants and dead flies stuck on the door sill.

“Are these your chickens?” mom leaned over the fence and asked our immediate neighbor, wondering if her Sunday lunch had escaped.

Apparently, they're vegetarians. "Call security," the woman suggested.

Mom ignored her and spent the better part of the morning watching the duo's antics until the children informed her that the birds had escaped from their friend's yard, a few doors down.

"Are they (gulp!) going to eat them?" asked mom.

"They're pets," she was reassured, as the owner was located and informed about the errant birds.

Mom's feathered friends left soon thereafter. As she walked around the block late that evening, mom fervently hoped that the aroma wafting down the street was not chicken-related.

Pay it Forward

Mom hasn’t read the book yet since she’s on a watch-it-first-read-it-later spree. The movie is captivating enough for her to want to read the book, but wouldn’t you know it, our local library doesn’t carry the title.

“So what? Just buy the book,” some of you might suggest, but mom is against buying paperbacks, especially one-time reads, when there’s a functional library nearby. (Yup, she’s cheap that way.)

The film is based on the premise of showering kindness on random strangers. A fifth-grader takes his social studies assignment of “changing the world” seriously and decides to make a difference in the lives of three people. He then hopes that the three people he helps will repay their debt by helping three others, who will, in turn, help three others and thus keep the kindness chain unbroken until it impacts as many people as possible.

The boy starts out by lending a helping hand to a homeless drug addict. He then connives to have his lonely teacher and alcoholic mother fall in love, and finally extends his kindness to save a classmate from bullies on the playground.

Helen Hunt plays the alcoholic single mother who works two jobs to support her son and her habit. She delivers her dialogs with the speed of a semi-automatic – a trait mom found rather annoying while watching her in “Mad About You.” She also looks her worst in this movie, dressing like a hooker with streaky eye makeup as she waitresses in a strip club.

Mom never noticed Kevin Spacey much before, but his role as a burned, scarred teacher who is afraid to love in this movie drew her attention. Despite a never-changing expression on his face, the man makes love to the camera in a subdued, controlled manner, never revealing his emotions but smiling secretly to himself. Each time Helen Hunt throws herself at him, he moans softly and pulls away, leading one to believe that there are men out there who can resist the allure of a semi-dressed, willing woman.

As a large-hearted man, the pedantic teacher falls for a recovering alcoholic and restores some of her dignity. On her part, the woman overlooks his scars and discovers the person hiding underneath the puckered skin.

As a shining example of her own random act of kindness, mom would like to start by adopting a dog.

Ahem … is her spouse listening?

Where is your natewe?*

Mom is always in a quandary when people ask her where she's from.

When non-Indians ask her, the answer is easy - "India," she replies confidently. The confusion sets in when she's probed further or when fellow Indians ask her.

The city she called home for the first 23 years of her life doesn't feel like home anymore.

"What do I say?" she wonders when confronted. "Should I start by saying that I grew up in the north but am originally from the south? Does that make me a pseudo North Indian as opposed to a pucca South Indian? I can't claim to be from Chennai either since I wasn't brought up there. What about the 13 years I spent outside India? That's not really 'home sweet home,' but I want to go back. Bangalore is still too new to call home and I'm not sure I want to live here forever. Darn it, can't we just talk about the weather instead?"

In a nutshell, mom feels at home neither here nor there.

It's as I always suspected - the woman is a freak from another planet.

Anybody else feel like a dhobi ka kutta?

*Natewe for the unsuspecting is actually "native" in Southenglish.

Can you hear me now?

Muchas gracias to all the wonderful people who voted to keep me alive virtually through this medium. You have excellent taste, mes amis.

To all others who voted for mom to write instead, tsk, tsk.

As a wise person once said, “If you want something done right, do it yourself.” I’ve been gone but a week and look at the condition of this blog already – sappy, soppy, corny, sentimental mush.

This is not my style, folks! How much rona-dhona and melancholy can one handle? At this rate, how do you expect me to outsource my blog to mom? Our writing styles are markedly different, and frankly, I prefer my own. I suspect she does too, although she’d rather fondle a lizard than admit it. Besides, the woman isn’t witty enough to think of another name for this blog.

I see I’m left with little choice than to hang around until rebound pup arrives. My chappal stealing and chappati hogging plans in paradise have to be on hold for the moment. Sigh!

But I hope to resume regular programming soon now that mom has announced to the universe that her heart and hearth are open. She has started looking for a suitable replacement. “It’s not a replacement. No one can replace my Terri. We're only adding to the family,” she quickly justifies. Sure, lady, whatever you say, as long as you keep the melodrama to a minimum.

Anybody out there know a pre-owned dog that is up for adoption? When she wasn't looking, mom used to come across notices posted by desperate dog owners trying to find a good home for their canine companion due to a divorce, death in the family, a move abroad, dander allergies, etc.

Mom claims she has no energy to train a pup and would rather adopt an older, housebroken dog who is gentleness personified and is happy to stay indoors and warm the flooring. In other words, she’s looking for me in a different avatar.

But knowing her (better than she knows herself), she's just as likely to fall for the first fur ball that tumbles into her lap and peers into her eyes, wagging its tail as hard as a turbo engine.

Can someone throw this woman a bone?

Haal-e-dil

Apun ka choice

Please look to the right and cast your vote.

Alone again (Naturally)

My darling Terr,

I waited for you in my dreams last night, but you never showed. Perhaps, as an anonymous commentator mentioned, you’re too busy stealing chappals and eating chapattis? Will you meet me tonight, if only for a moment?

I woke up late this morning because nobody nudged me awake at 6:30, demanding to be let out. The house is empty without you. Nobody trips me in the kitchen, nobody comes rushing when I rustle the bread wrapper, and nobody waits expectantly when the aroma of hot rotis fills the air.

It’s strange to look beside the refrigerator now and find an empty corner instead of your food bowls. I listen for your footfalls on the stairs when I’m in my room, expecting you to poke your head around the door to see what I’m doing.

There are moments when I get a whiff of you around me, and I inhale deeply to fill my lungs with your memory. I was poking in the refrigerator this morning looking for yoghurt when I swear I heard you sigh behind me. I talk to you constantly, hoping you can hear me.

Terri, I’m so sorry for all the times I shouted at you. I’m sorry I was rough with you and jerked your leash hard on purpose. I’m sorry I called you “Stupid dog” whenever you peed in the neighbor’s house. I’m sorry I smacked your bottom when you ate things you weren’t supposed to. I’m sorry I cribbed about walking you. I’m sorry for all the moments I wished I didn’t have a dog tugging ay my heartstrings. And I’m sorry I didn’t take you to the vet when you looked sick. I really thought I could wait another day.

I didn’t expect you to collapse writhing on the floor around midnight. Do you think I can ever forget how you dragged your body to the first floor, to be in my room as you breathed your last? Did you see me hover over you, listening for a heartbeat? Did you hear me call you, asking you to wake up? Did you taste my salty tears as they spilled over you?

I’m sorry, my love, my darling heart. If you were here, you’d lick my tears dry and push me gently with your wet nose, urging me to get up and hand you a treat.

Thank you, my first-born, for enriching my life in countless ways. Are you waiting for me at the Rainbow Bridge? Look for a small white dog named “Lily” from my childhood. She knew me for almost as long as you did.

Forever yours,
Mom

Goodbye, my love

He’s gone.

My foot warmer, vacuum cleaner, plant fertilizer, garbage disposer, pest controller, blood pressure regulator, 6:30 a.m. wake up caller, walk motivator, security guard, conversational ice breaker, chappati beggar, chappal stealer, unconditional lover, soul mate of 13 years is no more.

Terri has left the building.

Betty looks, Veronica personality

I’m not sure why an American actress was picked to play the lead in a movie set in 19th century England. Reese Witherspoon does justice to her role in Vanity Fair, but is there a dearth of talent in England that a Hollywood actress had to play the part of an English woman?

One wonders why filmmakers frequently overlook homespun talent in favor of foreign skill. Gwyneth Paltrow in Emma and Yul Brynner in The King and I come to mind, as does Jessica Alba in The Sleeping Dictionary. Closer home, Katrina Kaif (I use the word “talent” loosely here) serves as an example, along with a miscast Lisa Ray in Water (How many Indian widows look like her, I want to know?)

Perhaps director Mira Nair was simply trying to cash in on a major Hollywood star’s popularity at the box office. Whatever her reasons to cast Reese, Vanity Fair works for me on almost all levels, including costume, location, supporting characters and narration.

I haven’t read the book yet, but the movie is set in a time when English ladies wore low-cut, shapeless gowns, and attended soirees and tea parties to keep themselves occupied. Having watched and read many period dramas, one wonders how society ladies managed to stay in shape despite no exercise other than a leisurely stroll around the park. With housemaids and butlers in attendance, the women seemed to have no outlet for their energy other than gossiping while fanning themselves furiously at balls or playing the harp or piano, and taking up needlepoint.

The protagonist Becky is unfortunate enough to be born into poverty. What she lacks in pedigree she makes up for with an astute mind, and financial insecurity as an orphan mold her into a sharp go-getter who uses her feminine wiles to sleep her way out of penury.

The shrewd opportunist marries a charming rake despite loving only herself and money, and tries to carve a place for herself in genteel society. In the process of climbing the social ladder, she alienates her gambler husband, young son and her only real female friend who’s a maudlin contrast to strong-willed Becky.

The calculating character reminds me of a woman I know. Beautiful without being overtly seductive, talented, extremely brainy and charming, she seems to have the world at her feet. And yet, her delightful demeanor belies a devious, cunning mind and extremely sharp talons that she regularly unsheathes on people unfortunate enough to be outside her clique.

While most women tend to keep their distance from her, men are attracted to her like bees to honey. In spite of being married to a uxorious man, it seems as though a deep-rooted insecurity drives her to seek attention mostly of the masculine kind, which she greedily laps up before moving on.

She’s a sight to behold as she makes the rounds at parties with tinkling glass and laughter, stalking certain men and chatting up others, all the while making sure their wives don’t feel left out, much like Becky does in the movie. It’s a talent she was either born with or cultivated somewhere along the way.

Truly, if there were a finishing school that churns out such social charmers, brilliant actresses who use their slick minds as the only medium, the wallflower in me might be tempted to sign up.

Wouldn't you?

Ados Pados

In addition to possessing such myriad talents as gift buyer and wrapper, dog poop picker-upper, newspaper put away-er, toilet roll changer, underwear folder, light/fan/hot water heater off-er, pantry stockist, bed maker, etc., mom can now add another qualification to her considerable kitty – cake tester.

It came to our recent attention that our neighbors own a chocolate store at a mall. Last night, the couple asked if my humans were available to stop by poolside after dinner to test a few cakes that were going to be introduced at the store shortly.

“We’d really appreciate your feedback,” they said. “Hope you don’t mind.”

Mind?!! Hello, does a dog mind a bone? Does a smoker mind cigarettes? Who in their right mind would rather watch television than participate as a cake tester, especially when the chocolate is imported from Belgium?

As soon as the kids fell asleep, mom and dad made their way to the pool and joined select neighbors to sample three different kinds of cake and answer a brief questionnaire describing their preferences.

“Would you be willing to participate in future testing sessions?” the hosts wanted to know.

“I wouldn’t mind,” answered mom.

Mind, my foot!

Sugar, in any form, turns her on. Sugar, combined with flour, butter, eggs and flavoring leave mom positively orgasmic. Throw in the word “Free!” and you have a woman writhing in ecstasy – all this before the product even reaches her mouth.

As the humans walked home with leftover cake slices for the following day, mom thought of all the neighbors she's had so far, from the Konkani aunty who lived next door and made the best fried modaks to the pakkath-aathu maami in Chennai to the frank "We’re-trying-to-have-a-baby-and-I'm-ovulating" neighbor in the U.S.

Mom's thoughts lingered, in particular, on the blond guy who lived along the same row as the ovulating neighbor. The night before we left the country, mom saw a side of him she had never seen before.

The man stood in his driveway with a can of beer, waiting to let his cat in. A light breeze rustled the oleanders bordering our lawns. Soft music wafted through an open garage door. As he stepped out of the shadows, mom drew her breath in sharply.

Clad in a pair of boxer shorts and nothing else, not even slippers, the man stood silhouetted against the night sky. Moonlight bathed his body in a silvery sheen, dancing off his golden hair and the wedding band on his finger. As he moved and stretched his bare torso, the pale light outlined his rippling muscles, highlighting every crease on his washboard stomach.

Despite herself, mom stood transfixed, wondering if she had unknowingly lived next to a male underwear model the last few years.

She never caught his name, but the man will forever be etched in her memory as a David.

Paws for a cause

“Come here, Choti,” urged the kindly animal shelter caretaker doling out glucose biscuits from a tin can to the prancing dogs around him. “Don’t you want one?”

Little Choti wagged her tail and struggled to keep pace with her taller peers, dragging her deformed hind legs along the concrete floor.

The assorted puppies in a nearby enclosure let out shrill yelps, demanding their share of treats. Mom turned her attention to the clamoring curs who jumped up and licked her fingers through the iron grates. “Let me out of here!” they all seemed to say, while a baby buffalo and a white calf calmly chewed cud and surveyed the din from their side of the corral.

A lot of people I know may not classify a visit to an animal shelter as the ideal treat on one's birthday, but mom is the kind of person who’d rather be cooing at canines and domestic animals than indulge in retail therapy at the closest mall. Therefore, when her sister-in-law asked her if she would like to accompany her to the CUPA shelter in Hebbal to pick a new member for her family, mom jumped into the car with as much excitement and giddy anticipation as the devout reserve for a place of worship.

As they alighted from the car, a welcoming party ran up to greet them, gently poking their wet muzzles into the bag mom was carrying, and sniffing out the cookies she had brought them.

“Hello,” she said, stretching her palm out in acquaintance. Mom was duly rewarded with a light lick and a tail wag as the canine committee accompanied the visitors inside the complex.

“We don’t have any purebred dogs. OK?” warned the supervisor, leading the humans to the puppy pit. About 20 fluff balls of assorted sizes and colors huddled together, some on a dog bed, a few on the wet floor, amid empty steel bowls and puddles of urine, poop and vomit.

Palm-sized puppies slept in cages. Piled one on top of the other, they rooted against their littermates for warmth. Month-old strays of various shades of brown and black looked at the visitors briefly before yawning and settling back for a nap. “We don’t know anything about these pups, so there’s a 50-50 chance that they might not make it,” explained the person in charge, urging potential adopters toward hardier, older pups.

Presented with an array of choices, each one as adorable as the next, the humans stood in front of the kennel surveying the puppies. “Remember, they choose you,” mom recalled reading somewhere.

As she stood in front of the enclosure thinking about the day she brought me home from a similar place, a gangly puppy with lopsided ears threw himself against the yellow bars of his enclosure, clawing to get out. Furiously wagging his tail, he lunged for a biscuit that mom held out, toppling his companions who were similarly begging for treats and attention.

“He’s pretty cute,” the women decided, watching the five-month-old’s antics. He wasn’t the best-looking pup of the lot, neither was he the most graceful, but he possessed a certain charm that convinced mom’s sister-in-law to bring him home.

“What do you think, Terr?” asked mom as I greeted the new family member on arrival. The puppy cowered and stuck his tail between his legs as I licked him on the nose.

Relax, little one. You’re safe and in a loving home now.

Happy rebirth day! May your new life be markedly different from the one you left behind.

Bleddy Love: A brainless bore

“I’m going to New York tomorrow,” announced mom grandly one evening, giving her family the impression that she was indeed making good on her desire to go back to the U.S. to buy underwire brassieres for herself and dainty sandals for her six-year-old.

Before the family thrust a shopping list at her, mom clarified that she was going to be in New York vicariously. “I’m only going to watch the movie, guys,” she said.

The next day, while the rest of Bangalore seemingly commuted to work, mom and five other ladies from our housing complex hopped into taxis to drive an hour away to the closest multiplex to catch a 10:15 a.m. show.

“This feels so decadent,” thought mom guiltily, watching people with grim faces and ID badges waiting on the road to board a bus or fighting their way through traffic. “Who goes to watch a movie at 10 in the morning?”

Apparently, the students at the college down the street from the multiplex did, for the ticket counters were packed with boys and girls who had skipped classes.

New York was sold out thanks to these truants, so the ladies were left with little choice than to watch a parallel-running show instead. “Only 60 bucks, ya. So cheap!” they justified, as they groped for their seats in the darkened theater to watch Kambakkht Ishq.

Less than two minutes into the movie, mom distanced herself from her brain. As Akshay Kumar strutted on screen in snug pants, she wondered where exactly his mass appeal lay. Was it in his voice that sounds like he swallowed a frog, or in the perma-leer on his face when he looks at women? Could the attraction lie in his bulging biceps or in his golden, hairless chest?

For the amount he makes per film, the man even mispronounced Denise Richards’ name, after sharing screen time with her. Clearly, his attention, while she sat on his lap and rubbed herself against him, was elsewhere.

The movie had as many holes as a sea sponge has, and mom sat through the entire film with a tub of popcorn in her hands, periodically popping kernels into her mouth every time she yawned.

135 excruciating minutes later, she streamed out of the hall behind the teeny-bopper crowd, praying that the men in the audience - little more than boys really – would treat women far more respectfully that the hero-molester does. (The hero gropes and assaults the heroine in a group song in Venice and she predictably falls in love with him by the end of the film.)

“Well, I didn’t go to New York. I went to L.A. instead,” announced mom when she returned home, referring to the city Kambakkht Ishq is shot in.

“Are you going to New York next week?” the children asked a little too eagerly.

"Why?" sniffed mom suspiciously.

"No, these chocolate doughnuts you got us from the mall are nice, but next time get glazed ones," they replied, licking their sticky fingers.

For now, mom has elected to stay home. She has yet to recover from the sight of Amrita Arora's pockmarked cleavage, which was on ample display throughout the film.